Saturday, May 7th 2011
Mrs. Bennet decided it was about time she started writing down all the funny things her twin daughters Spag and Bol muttered on a daily basis before the brain cells she had left finally disappeared with the odd socks, hair bands and Polly Pocket shoes.
Having realised her last diary entry was January 1st and it contained a pledge not to lose any of the little Miss Bennets, she thought it was only fair to state that she had NOT abandoned any in a supermarket, car, street or otherwise. She had lost many other things, but generally they were not of the living variety. Instead they were of the variety that always proved to annoy and frustrate her, so much so she often commented to her hormone-suffering husband: "Why do I spend most of my day looking for things when I had them only five minutes ago?"
Two hair brushes had disappeared in a spate of three days. Mrs. Bennet used her fingers to comb her own purple, blond and red streaked hair, but they didn't have the same result on five long-haired daughters. Mrs. Bennet didn't do long hair and still hadn't mastered the perfect ponytail. Somehow it always ended up one side and partings were never straight down the middle. They seemed to have several extra pathways veering to the left or right.
It wasn't surprising then that her legs were also allergic to skirts or dresses. They much preferred jeans. But last week Mrs. Bennet decided to break from tradition and allow part of her short pins to show - so long as their twin-induced varicose veins weren't on display for all to see. Her attire didn't go unnoticed.
In fact some members of the household were very quick to respond. Notably Miss Bennet number four, affectionately nicknamed Spag.
"Mummy," she declared in deliberate fashion, "Why are you pretending to be a lady?"
Mrs. Bennet couldn't help but laugh. This little twin was always dressing up in long flowing robes, twirling around in front of the mirror and declaring that she was a Princess. She clearly didn't see Mrs. Bennet in this category. Although Spag had been suitably impressed when watching her mother's wedding DVD to see her in the ultimate Cinderella dress complete with 5ft train - and white Dr Marten boots. SHe wore that 14 years ago. Mrs. Bennet was sure she had worn a skirt since then, or may be she hadn't. It was obvious by Spag's remarks that not many dresses or non-trouser outfits had been part of her attire in Miss Bennet Number Four's four year lifetime. Mrs. Bennet didn't have to come up with a reply. Her older daughters did it for her.
"That's because she is a lady! She's not pretending."
Secretly Mrs. Bennet thought Spag was right. She did feel as if she was pretending. But she liked it. So much so she went out and bought another skirt the following day.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Saturday, 1 January 2011
A pledge not to leave a daughter behind
Saturday, January 1st 2011
“I, Mrs. Bennet do solemnly declare that I will in 2011 count all my children in, and count them all out. That way I will ensure I don’t leave any one of the five Miss Bennets behind, whatever the word behind might refer to at that given time. I will also make a better effort not to lose my car keys and instead put them back on their hook so that last minute panics don’t occur. Oh and I promise to put at least one photo in an album this coming year.” Signed Mrs. Bennet.
So it had come to this: writing promises and pledges to her children. Whether it was for her benefit or for theirs she wasn’t quite sure. But one thing she did know was that it did have a little something to do with guilt. It was ever since Mr. Bennet came home one Tuesday night and discovered that one of the little Miss Twin Bennets was missing. Mrs. Bennet had been in the kitchen, trying desperately to produce something vaguely edible that her daughters would eat without wriggling up their noses, pulling a distorted face and inquiring “what is it?” and then declaring that they didn’t like “it,” and would not be eating their tea. Mrs. Bennet had not been in a good mood that evening. One of the older Miss Bennets had been rude, downright stubborn and had refused to do what she was told. It meant precious time had been lost and Mrs. Bennet had 20 minutes to feed five hungry mouths and leave with the eldest child for the next Bennet appointment – and there were many in her household. They had been to a ballet lesson, but due to rebellion in the camp, the lesson wasn’t completed and tantrums had caused an embarrassed Mrs. Bennet to leave in somewhat lower spirits than she had arrived. In her upset, she had forgotten her arithmetic, so when Mr. Bennet, who was much better in the maths department than herself, arrived, he was able to notice that the sum of daughters didn’t quite add up.
“Where’s Rosie?” he asked.
“What do you mean? Playing with her people I expect,” answered Mrs. Bennet, realising that she hadn’t been asked for a drink or food from her eldest twin for almost half an hour.
She joined her husband in the hunt for the missing child. Being busy in the kitchen and leaving the children to play quietly and happily, Mrs.Bennet had wrongly assumed all were present. As not one child had noticed that the dark-haired Miss Bennet Number Four or her well-chewed bunny with its heart-shaped patch covering the hole on his bottom weren’t in the house, Mrs. Bennet hadn’t had cause to worry – until now.
“But she’s not been out of my sight!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, her voice beginning to shake and the insides of her stomach starting to churn as she tried desperately to recall every movement Rosie had made. She ran outside and opened the car door, peered in and closed it again. Now she was panicking. Her mind blank, her heart racing, she turned to her husband in desperation.
“I don’t know where she is and I don’t know what to do!”
Frantic minutes of rushing around the house, searching and calling followed. In the midst of her own turmoil, Mrs.Bennet stopped and prayed. In the only second of calm, she decided to have another look in the Scooby Doo Van, where on sliding the door, she found crouched in a tight ball in the footwell between the second row and third row car seats with Rabbit held firmly in her hand, was the missing child.
“Rosie! I’m so sorry love. Come here!” Not giving her daughter a chance to reply, Mrs.. Bennet embraced her in a huge hug, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Oh Rosie, I thought we’d lost you.”
“I did call you Mummy but you didn’t hear me!”
So that was why Mrs. Bennet was now promising to count her children in and out. In the stress of dealing with a rather stubborn nine-year-old, she had failed to move the back seat and pull her first twin out.
Mrs. Bennet knew she was not a perfect mother, but she did love her daughters, even if they did push her to limits and test her patience. And she also knew how easy it was to get distracted by one her little people. Between 4pm and 6.30pm – before Mr. Bennet arrived home – was often a time when World War III took place. It was the period when she frequently longed to grow wings and fly off to a make-believe place where the words conflict, disobedience and rebellion didn’t exist. A hot soothing Mr. Latte often helped but just didn’t last long enough.
So here she was in 2011. A year when three of her offspring would be starting new schools – the eldest off to secondary and the youngest two joining the sea of green uniforms at primary. She decided with so many labels to sew on, she had better order them now and get working. That way she might also remember her children’s names. There was nothing worse when going to tell a child off than using the wrong name and having to go through all five to get to the right one. It under-minded your authority somewhat.
And so with an era of nappy changing behind her, luke-warm coffee in hand, Mrs. Bennet stumbled into 2011, knowing it would be a year of military operations, time-table schedules, taxi driving, refereeing, cooking and attempting to remember where each child was each day. She would endeavour to ensure each got home safely and weren’t left anywhere. After all if she did it again, her daughters might hold it against her in her old age, and forget to look after her when she needed it.
“I, Mrs. Bennet do solemnly declare that I will in 2011 count all my children in, and count them all out. That way I will ensure I don’t leave any one of the five Miss Bennets behind, whatever the word behind might refer to at that given time. I will also make a better effort not to lose my car keys and instead put them back on their hook so that last minute panics don’t occur. Oh and I promise to put at least one photo in an album this coming year.” Signed Mrs. Bennet.
So it had come to this: writing promises and pledges to her children. Whether it was for her benefit or for theirs she wasn’t quite sure. But one thing she did know was that it did have a little something to do with guilt. It was ever since Mr. Bennet came home one Tuesday night and discovered that one of the little Miss Twin Bennets was missing. Mrs. Bennet had been in the kitchen, trying desperately to produce something vaguely edible that her daughters would eat without wriggling up their noses, pulling a distorted face and inquiring “what is it?” and then declaring that they didn’t like “it,” and would not be eating their tea. Mrs. Bennet had not been in a good mood that evening. One of the older Miss Bennets had been rude, downright stubborn and had refused to do what she was told. It meant precious time had been lost and Mrs. Bennet had 20 minutes to feed five hungry mouths and leave with the eldest child for the next Bennet appointment – and there were many in her household. They had been to a ballet lesson, but due to rebellion in the camp, the lesson wasn’t completed and tantrums had caused an embarrassed Mrs. Bennet to leave in somewhat lower spirits than she had arrived. In her upset, she had forgotten her arithmetic, so when Mr. Bennet, who was much better in the maths department than herself, arrived, he was able to notice that the sum of daughters didn’t quite add up.
“Where’s Rosie?” he asked.
“What do you mean? Playing with her people I expect,” answered Mrs. Bennet, realising that she hadn’t been asked for a drink or food from her eldest twin for almost half an hour.
She joined her husband in the hunt for the missing child. Being busy in the kitchen and leaving the children to play quietly and happily, Mrs.Bennet had wrongly assumed all were present. As not one child had noticed that the dark-haired Miss Bennet Number Four or her well-chewed bunny with its heart-shaped patch covering the hole on his bottom weren’t in the house, Mrs. Bennet hadn’t had cause to worry – until now.
“But she’s not been out of my sight!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, her voice beginning to shake and the insides of her stomach starting to churn as she tried desperately to recall every movement Rosie had made. She ran outside and opened the car door, peered in and closed it again. Now she was panicking. Her mind blank, her heart racing, she turned to her husband in desperation.
“I don’t know where she is and I don’t know what to do!”
Frantic minutes of rushing around the house, searching and calling followed. In the midst of her own turmoil, Mrs.Bennet stopped and prayed. In the only second of calm, she decided to have another look in the Scooby Doo Van, where on sliding the door, she found crouched in a tight ball in the footwell between the second row and third row car seats with Rabbit held firmly in her hand, was the missing child.
“Rosie! I’m so sorry love. Come here!” Not giving her daughter a chance to reply, Mrs.. Bennet embraced her in a huge hug, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Oh Rosie, I thought we’d lost you.”
“I did call you Mummy but you didn’t hear me!”
So that was why Mrs. Bennet was now promising to count her children in and out. In the stress of dealing with a rather stubborn nine-year-old, she had failed to move the back seat and pull her first twin out.
Mrs. Bennet knew she was not a perfect mother, but she did love her daughters, even if they did push her to limits and test her patience. And she also knew how easy it was to get distracted by one her little people. Between 4pm and 6.30pm – before Mr. Bennet arrived home – was often a time when World War III took place. It was the period when she frequently longed to grow wings and fly off to a make-believe place where the words conflict, disobedience and rebellion didn’t exist. A hot soothing Mr. Latte often helped but just didn’t last long enough.
So here she was in 2011. A year when three of her offspring would be starting new schools – the eldest off to secondary and the youngest two joining the sea of green uniforms at primary. She decided with so many labels to sew on, she had better order them now and get working. That way she might also remember her children’s names. There was nothing worse when going to tell a child off than using the wrong name and having to go through all five to get to the right one. It under-minded your authority somewhat.
And so with an era of nappy changing behind her, luke-warm coffee in hand, Mrs. Bennet stumbled into 2011, knowing it would be a year of military operations, time-table schedules, taxi driving, refereeing, cooking and attempting to remember where each child was each day. She would endeavour to ensure each got home safely and weren’t left anywhere. After all if she did it again, her daughters might hold it against her in her old age, and forget to look after her when she needed it.
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
My bottom’s not working
Wednesday, September 22’10
After 10 years of daily wiping and changing bottoms, Mrs. Bennet had served her sentence. Thirty seven and a half thousand nappies later she was now a free woman. Miss Bennet Number Four – the last of the Bennet girls to master the given art of performing in the correct place – had finally announced very proudly “Mummy, my bottom’s working now!”
Having seen three children through the nappy-to-pant stage, Mrs. Bennet thought numbers four and five would be easy. She was wrong. Twin bottoms were a different matter. Two bottoms attached to two very different bodies. One would think that if one twin derriere had successfully progressed from the L stage to pass, then the other would follow. Not so in Spag and Bol’s case. It was Bol, the smaller twin who first decided she no longer wanted the restrictions of a nappy and instead opt to actually wear the chosen Dora the Explorer collection of pants instead of admire them from a distance. The Peppa Pig pant family remained in their cellophane wrapper for months and months. Spag liked to look at them. Wearing them was not high on her agenda. She much preferred spending time playing with her little people, having conversations with them and making them her friends. Bol liked being with real people and observed every move they made, so it figured that as she followed her mother into the bathroom every time nature called, she too wanted to sit on the big toilet. So she trained herself, announced what she wanted to do, took herself to the potty and did the business without any accidents. Bol desperately did her best to get her bigger sister by 20 minutes to follow suit, but Spag just congratulated her and decided that her twin could receive the glory, so long as she could get on with role playing. And so at 3 years and 4 months she finally allowed Peppa Pig out of the pant packet.
But as any mother knows just because the child in question has moved from changing mat to toilet seat does not mean that the word “mess” is eliminated from the vocabulary. Quite the contrary, it can in fact mean this word appears more and prompts a few choice words in response! Now Mrs. Bennet knew that this was not the case for all the little Miss Bennets. Bol had been a dream potty trainee. She took herself to the said pot, did her business and got rid of the evidence without spillage. She announced what she needed to do and did it – in the right place. Spag however had the laid-back approach to the pant wearing regime and if she needed to do her business and the bathroom was a little further than she cared to travel, she produced amidst her toys – often fumigating her Polly Pocket people. However she was on the right track. Accidents were only a handful a week now and at least Mrs. Bennet was saving money by not having to buy nappies. Perhaps she should put by what she was saving in a special toiletry collection bank, ready for the next expensive item which would affect the Bennet household. She knew it wouldn’t be long before the periods started and the volcano of hormones would start exploding. With six women suffering PMT, Mr. Bennet had no idea what was coming his way. Thirty-seven thousand nappies were nothing compared to the amount of sanitary towels required in the coming years. Mrs. Bennet could only feel sorry for her poor husband. It would be his nerves and not her own which would be severely tested.
After 10 years of daily wiping and changing bottoms, Mrs. Bennet had served her sentence. Thirty seven and a half thousand nappies later she was now a free woman. Miss Bennet Number Four – the last of the Bennet girls to master the given art of performing in the correct place – had finally announced very proudly “Mummy, my bottom’s working now!”
Having seen three children through the nappy-to-pant stage, Mrs. Bennet thought numbers four and five would be easy. She was wrong. Twin bottoms were a different matter. Two bottoms attached to two very different bodies. One would think that if one twin derriere had successfully progressed from the L stage to pass, then the other would follow. Not so in Spag and Bol’s case. It was Bol, the smaller twin who first decided she no longer wanted the restrictions of a nappy and instead opt to actually wear the chosen Dora the Explorer collection of pants instead of admire them from a distance. The Peppa Pig pant family remained in their cellophane wrapper for months and months. Spag liked to look at them. Wearing them was not high on her agenda. She much preferred spending time playing with her little people, having conversations with them and making them her friends. Bol liked being with real people and observed every move they made, so it figured that as she followed her mother into the bathroom every time nature called, she too wanted to sit on the big toilet. So she trained herself, announced what she wanted to do, took herself to the potty and did the business without any accidents. Bol desperately did her best to get her bigger sister by 20 minutes to follow suit, but Spag just congratulated her and decided that her twin could receive the glory, so long as she could get on with role playing. And so at 3 years and 4 months she finally allowed Peppa Pig out of the pant packet.
But as any mother knows just because the child in question has moved from changing mat to toilet seat does not mean that the word “mess” is eliminated from the vocabulary. Quite the contrary, it can in fact mean this word appears more and prompts a few choice words in response! Now Mrs. Bennet knew that this was not the case for all the little Miss Bennets. Bol had been a dream potty trainee. She took herself to the said pot, did her business and got rid of the evidence without spillage. She announced what she needed to do and did it – in the right place. Spag however had the laid-back approach to the pant wearing regime and if she needed to do her business and the bathroom was a little further than she cared to travel, she produced amidst her toys – often fumigating her Polly Pocket people. However she was on the right track. Accidents were only a handful a week now and at least Mrs. Bennet was saving money by not having to buy nappies. Perhaps she should put by what she was saving in a special toiletry collection bank, ready for the next expensive item which would affect the Bennet household. She knew it wouldn’t be long before the periods started and the volcano of hormones would start exploding. With six women suffering PMT, Mr. Bennet had no idea what was coming his way. Thirty-seven thousand nappies were nothing compared to the amount of sanitary towels required in the coming years. Mrs. Bennet could only feel sorry for her poor husband. It would be his nerves and not her own which would be severely tested.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
The boxing Bennets
Wednesday, July 15 2010
Her head throbbed and her thumb hurt. Mrs. Bennet sat in a crumpled heap in the playroom floor surrounded by playdough tools, hardened lumps, tiny sunglasses with bent arms, princess shoes missing their precious jewels and shape sorters stuffed with everything(breakfast toast remains included) but the rightful triangular, circular and square residents. Towering above her in a mocking fashion as it gently wobbled from side to side was the latest acquisition to the Bennet household - a punchbag and its boxing glove companions. The younger twin, Miss Kezia Spiers called it a hot air balloon. Mrs. Bennet decided this was an excellent name for it. The whole idea of buying this strange toy was to get rid of the hot air between two of her offspring. Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet were in the midst of a "you're the worst sister ever" season and it was driving Mrs. Bennet mad.
They knew how to wind each other up and purposely pushed the boundaries to get a reaction. Voices would rise, punches would fly and tears would flow - all before breakfast which made passing go almost impossible for the school run. The "go directly to gaol" card was frequently issued by the mother. Not to the offenders. To herself.
Sometimes a night in a cell sounded quite appealing if it avoided waking up to fights. In desperation rather than in wisdom, Mrs. Bennet hunted down the local shops for a punchbag - as you do - so that the argumentative Miss Bennets could lash out at the bag rather than each other. Impressed by this novelty item, they immediately pledged to be friends then promptly argued over who would try it out first. Miss Kezia Bennet enjoyed it the most, hitting her black air balloon proudly with tiny fists and huge grin. But it soon became obvious to Mrs. Bennet who the punchbag was really for - her.
An hour or so later, after yet another bout of Miss Bennet blues and battles, Mrs. Bennet walked out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet walked in and counted to 100 whilst hitting the steering wheel. Let it be said quickly here that she was not driving - just taking much needed time out in the safety of her four tin walls. She was too frustrated and angry to let herself near the punchbag in case she boxed it off its stand. Ten minutes on she let herself go back in, headed straight for the boxing gloves and jabbed at the bag with all her might. Hot in the face, she finally stopped punching. It was only then, once her passionate display had cooled, that she realised her thumb was really sore.
"You do realise broken thumbs are a common injury for boxers, don't you?!" offered a voice from the adjoining kitchen. No doubt intrigued by his wife's sudden burst of energy and need to improve her upper body muscle-tone, Mr. Bennet had been secretly watching.
Mrs. Bennet felt like punching him, but at risk of making her thumb worse, decided to poke her tongue out at him instead. Once her thumb had recovered its first bout of boxing, she knew Mr. Punchbag would be her new friend. She could punch him as hard as she liked and he would never ever complain.
Her head throbbed and her thumb hurt. Mrs. Bennet sat in a crumpled heap in the playroom floor surrounded by playdough tools, hardened lumps, tiny sunglasses with bent arms, princess shoes missing their precious jewels and shape sorters stuffed with everything(breakfast toast remains included) but the rightful triangular, circular and square residents. Towering above her in a mocking fashion as it gently wobbled from side to side was the latest acquisition to the Bennet household - a punchbag and its boxing glove companions. The younger twin, Miss Kezia Spiers called it a hot air balloon. Mrs. Bennet decided this was an excellent name for it. The whole idea of buying this strange toy was to get rid of the hot air between two of her offspring. Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet were in the midst of a "you're the worst sister ever" season and it was driving Mrs. Bennet mad.
They knew how to wind each other up and purposely pushed the boundaries to get a reaction. Voices would rise, punches would fly and tears would flow - all before breakfast which made passing go almost impossible for the school run. The "go directly to gaol" card was frequently issued by the mother. Not to the offenders. To herself.
Sometimes a night in a cell sounded quite appealing if it avoided waking up to fights. In desperation rather than in wisdom, Mrs. Bennet hunted down the local shops for a punchbag - as you do - so that the argumentative Miss Bennets could lash out at the bag rather than each other. Impressed by this novelty item, they immediately pledged to be friends then promptly argued over who would try it out first. Miss Kezia Bennet enjoyed it the most, hitting her black air balloon proudly with tiny fists and huge grin. But it soon became obvious to Mrs. Bennet who the punchbag was really for - her.
An hour or so later, after yet another bout of Miss Bennet blues and battles, Mrs. Bennet walked out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet walked in and counted to 100 whilst hitting the steering wheel. Let it be said quickly here that she was not driving - just taking much needed time out in the safety of her four tin walls. She was too frustrated and angry to let herself near the punchbag in case she boxed it off its stand. Ten minutes on she let herself go back in, headed straight for the boxing gloves and jabbed at the bag with all her might. Hot in the face, she finally stopped punching. It was only then, once her passionate display had cooled, that she realised her thumb was really sore.
"You do realise broken thumbs are a common injury for boxers, don't you?!" offered a voice from the adjoining kitchen. No doubt intrigued by his wife's sudden burst of energy and need to improve her upper body muscle-tone, Mr. Bennet had been secretly watching.
Mrs. Bennet felt like punching him, but at risk of making her thumb worse, decided to poke her tongue out at him instead. Once her thumb had recovered its first bout of boxing, she knew Mr. Punchbag would be her new friend. She could punch him as hard as she liked and he would never ever complain.
Friday, 9 July 2010
I don't like being 40
Friday, July 9th 2010
Mrs. Bennet wanted her money back. Being forty was not what it promised to be. Life was supposed to begin. But her body had obviously rebelled about being such an age. Certain bits were in decline rather than in blooming mode. In order to write this, she was now wearing glasses. Having realised that she was holding her book further and further away in order to read the small print, she reluctantly made a long-overdue eye test. Armed with her new purple-starred reading specs the long-sighted road had begun. So now by her bedside table lay her glasses alongside her passion-killing mouth guard, acquired a couple if months ago. Apparently she ground her teeth in the night which caused her jaw to ache in the day! She'd lost a tooth, broke another one on an olive stone, had trouble with her varicose veins thanks to the twins' pregnancy, now had to wear padded bras as the five Miss Bennets had munched what little she had at the milk bar; and to depressingly she had recently discovered a white hair in a place she didn't wish to disclose! But as she had always vowed to grow old disgracefully she had booked up a hair appointment to have purple and burgundy streaks. She could run 10k quite comfortably thank you and more importantly she knew how to laugh with and at herself. But to be honest being forty hadn't been fun. Her children still loved her even if they chuckled at her new support aids. Miss Bennet Number Three,spotting her mouth shield had even boldly asked: "Mummy what's it like wearing false teeth?!" But considering she had five little girls to look after, a job, a husband to love and a very active life - although her socially her children seemed to have far more exciting things to do - she wasn't doing too badly. She just hoped being 41 would prove to be better and she hold all her working bits together!
Mrs. Bennet wanted her money back. Being forty was not what it promised to be. Life was supposed to begin. But her body had obviously rebelled about being such an age. Certain bits were in decline rather than in blooming mode. In order to write this, she was now wearing glasses. Having realised that she was holding her book further and further away in order to read the small print, she reluctantly made a long-overdue eye test. Armed with her new purple-starred reading specs the long-sighted road had begun. So now by her bedside table lay her glasses alongside her passion-killing mouth guard, acquired a couple if months ago. Apparently she ground her teeth in the night which caused her jaw to ache in the day! She'd lost a tooth, broke another one on an olive stone, had trouble with her varicose veins thanks to the twins' pregnancy, now had to wear padded bras as the five Miss Bennets had munched what little she had at the milk bar; and to depressingly she had recently discovered a white hair in a place she didn't wish to disclose! But as she had always vowed to grow old disgracefully she had booked up a hair appointment to have purple and burgundy streaks. She could run 10k quite comfortably thank you and more importantly she knew how to laugh with and at herself. But to be honest being forty hadn't been fun. Her children still loved her even if they chuckled at her new support aids. Miss Bennet Number Three,spotting her mouth shield had even boldly asked: "Mummy what's it like wearing false teeth?!" But considering she had five little girls to look after, a job, a husband to love and a very active life - although her socially her children seemed to have far more exciting things to do - she wasn't doing too badly. She just hoped being 41 would prove to be better and she hold all her working bits together!
Thursday, 1 July 2010
I know what you’re up to
Wednesday, June 30 '10
The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.
The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.
Monday, 7 June 2010
Labour pains of a Mummy
Monday, June 7 2010
Motherhood, Mrs. Bennet decided was like being in permanent labour. There were moments of calm. And there were moments when the contractions were so painful, she felt like screaming. Sitting on the doorstep, head in hands and breathing deeply was one of those moments. Minutes before the little Twin Bennets were happily playing in the playroom, Miss Bennet Number One was literally plastered with paper mache, engrossed in building a model air raid shelter, Miss Bennet Number Two was cartwheeling across the lounge floor, while Miss Bennet Number Three was sitting quietly amidst a rainbow of coloured felt tips working on her latest masterpiece. There was a contented aura in the house which meant Mrs Bennet could get on with preparing tea without having to act as referee or counsellor. So how come then she was now sitting on the step, wishing she was somewhere else and counting the minutes to Mr. Bennet’s return? She was victim of the domino effect. The Braxton Hicks contractor that started small, but built up so strongly, she had top gasp for air. Since she had no cylinder of Gas and Air to call upon, it meant leaving the house to count to ten and get her blood pressure under control again.
It started with the simple act of opening a cupboard. A small bottle of pearly brown nail varnish had nose-dived into her favourite spotty mug and in doing so smashed the top, sending little chips onto the hob and floor. Bending down to pick up the bits, she banged her head on the corner of a cupboard she had forgotten to shut. Simultaneously battles were erupting in the different downstairs rooms. The little Miss Twin Bennets, who up until now had been behaving themselves, sharing their toys and chatting in their unique Spagbolese language, were now at war. The elder twin by 20 minutes was sitting on top of her sister’s head, refusing to let go of her as her rival had stolen both Fifi characters and wasn’t going to give in. Prizing her from the head sitter, affectionately known as Spag, Mrs. Bennet issued a peace treaty and separated the two fighters. Meanwhile the cartwheeling Miss Bennet had promptly crashed into the very table her artistic siblings were working on, wobbling it to the degree it caused glue to spill and felt tip marks to slip.
“Now my picture’s ruined! It’s all your fault Emily!” exclaimed Miss Bennet number three, ripping up her bright design.
“And look what you’ve done!” cried the elder Miss Bennet, not impressed by the acrobat.
In sorting out this scenario, Mrs Bennet completely forgot about the pot of boiling water and the pasta within. A certain burning smell was heading her way. Too late, the pasta was now part of the saucepan. She hurriedly picked up the handle and ushered the pan to the sink, but somehow failed to miss the pair of tiny pink spotty sunglasses on the floor and crushed them underfoot, hurting herself as she did so. The younger twin, to which the mini fashion accessory belonged, didn’t miss a trick and immediately howled, knowing full well what her mother had just done. So now Mrs. Bennet was the accused and Bol had the evidence that she was guilty. Mrs. Bennet felt like the burnt pasta: frazzled. And it was another 90 minutes before her Mr. Darcy arrived to rescue her.
Sometimes the contractions of motherhood came thick and fast; other days they were a little less frequent. Very rarely was there a day in the Bennet household, when the labour pains barely registered on the graph. And of course there were moments when Mrs. Bennet, so sleep deprived, felt like she had taken one too many puffs on the Gas and Air. Yesterday she had bathed Bol and dried her, to be told by Mr. Bennet that she had failed to wash out the shampoo on the little twin’s head! She had spent the day wearing her top inside out and one earring only and the bottle of Chardonnay she had bought for a friend, promptly rolled out of the car and smashed at her feet as she opened the door.
“You think once you’ve had a child, labour stops. But it’s a lie, it continues for years,” she said out loud from her I-feel-sorry-for-myself step. She breathed out as she was taught all those years ago at Parentcraft lessons and made a decision to see if there were some Gas and Air cylinders on EBay she could bid for. She’d then keep one in each room ready for the next contraction.
Motherhood, Mrs. Bennet decided was like being in permanent labour. There were moments of calm. And there were moments when the contractions were so painful, she felt like screaming. Sitting on the doorstep, head in hands and breathing deeply was one of those moments. Minutes before the little Twin Bennets were happily playing in the playroom, Miss Bennet Number One was literally plastered with paper mache, engrossed in building a model air raid shelter, Miss Bennet Number Two was cartwheeling across the lounge floor, while Miss Bennet Number Three was sitting quietly amidst a rainbow of coloured felt tips working on her latest masterpiece. There was a contented aura in the house which meant Mrs Bennet could get on with preparing tea without having to act as referee or counsellor. So how come then she was now sitting on the step, wishing she was somewhere else and counting the minutes to Mr. Bennet’s return? She was victim of the domino effect. The Braxton Hicks contractor that started small, but built up so strongly, she had top gasp for air. Since she had no cylinder of Gas and Air to call upon, it meant leaving the house to count to ten and get her blood pressure under control again.
It started with the simple act of opening a cupboard. A small bottle of pearly brown nail varnish had nose-dived into her favourite spotty mug and in doing so smashed the top, sending little chips onto the hob and floor. Bending down to pick up the bits, she banged her head on the corner of a cupboard she had forgotten to shut. Simultaneously battles were erupting in the different downstairs rooms. The little Miss Twin Bennets, who up until now had been behaving themselves, sharing their toys and chatting in their unique Spagbolese language, were now at war. The elder twin by 20 minutes was sitting on top of her sister’s head, refusing to let go of her as her rival had stolen both Fifi characters and wasn’t going to give in. Prizing her from the head sitter, affectionately known as Spag, Mrs. Bennet issued a peace treaty and separated the two fighters. Meanwhile the cartwheeling Miss Bennet had promptly crashed into the very table her artistic siblings were working on, wobbling it to the degree it caused glue to spill and felt tip marks to slip.
“Now my picture’s ruined! It’s all your fault Emily!” exclaimed Miss Bennet number three, ripping up her bright design.
“And look what you’ve done!” cried the elder Miss Bennet, not impressed by the acrobat.
In sorting out this scenario, Mrs Bennet completely forgot about the pot of boiling water and the pasta within. A certain burning smell was heading her way. Too late, the pasta was now part of the saucepan. She hurriedly picked up the handle and ushered the pan to the sink, but somehow failed to miss the pair of tiny pink spotty sunglasses on the floor and crushed them underfoot, hurting herself as she did so. The younger twin, to which the mini fashion accessory belonged, didn’t miss a trick and immediately howled, knowing full well what her mother had just done. So now Mrs. Bennet was the accused and Bol had the evidence that she was guilty. Mrs. Bennet felt like the burnt pasta: frazzled. And it was another 90 minutes before her Mr. Darcy arrived to rescue her.
Sometimes the contractions of motherhood came thick and fast; other days they were a little less frequent. Very rarely was there a day in the Bennet household, when the labour pains barely registered on the graph. And of course there were moments when Mrs. Bennet, so sleep deprived, felt like she had taken one too many puffs on the Gas and Air. Yesterday she had bathed Bol and dried her, to be told by Mr. Bennet that she had failed to wash out the shampoo on the little twin’s head! She had spent the day wearing her top inside out and one earring only and the bottle of Chardonnay she had bought for a friend, promptly rolled out of the car and smashed at her feet as she opened the door.
“You think once you’ve had a child, labour stops. But it’s a lie, it continues for years,” she said out loud from her I-feel-sorry-for-myself step. She breathed out as she was taught all those years ago at Parentcraft lessons and made a decision to see if there were some Gas and Air cylinders on EBay she could bid for. She’d then keep one in each room ready for the next contraction.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Warning low flying tampons
Friday, April 30 2010
Mrs. Bennet knew it was time to get off the treadmill when removing her jumper, the concealed tampons in her pocket flew out and hit the running machine of the male runner in front. Seeing the White bullets scattered on the gym floor and athletic eyes gazing in her direction, Mrs. Bennet brought her run to an abrupt end, leapt over the front of the machine, gathered her essentials and legged it. She had come on that morning and had had no real desire to exercise anyway, apart from trying out her new trainers, so she appreciated the excuse.
As Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets were happily playing in the crèche, she couldn't leave the building in the safe anonymity of the packed car park; so she sank back into the comforts of the gym's leather sofa, clutching her Mr. Latte and prayed the men she had attacked with her bullets wouldn't recognise her with her clothes on!
Mrs. Bennet knew it was time to get off the treadmill when removing her jumper, the concealed tampons in her pocket flew out and hit the running machine of the male runner in front. Seeing the White bullets scattered on the gym floor and athletic eyes gazing in her direction, Mrs. Bennet brought her run to an abrupt end, leapt over the front of the machine, gathered her essentials and legged it. She had come on that morning and had had no real desire to exercise anyway, apart from trying out her new trainers, so she appreciated the excuse.
As Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets were happily playing in the crèche, she couldn't leave the building in the safe anonymity of the packed car park; so she sank back into the comforts of the gym's leather sofa, clutching her Mr. Latte and prayed the men she had attacked with her bullets wouldn't recognise her with her clothes on!
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Conception in the bedroom – not guilty, says Mrs. Bennet
Tuesday, April 13 2010
The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.
The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Christmas Day Mark Two
Sunday, March 28 10
Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!
Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!
Monday, 22 March 2010
The Cot Concert
Monday, March 22 '10
Shouts of joy and laughter which came from the vacinity of the little Miss Twin Bennet's room indicated that the occupants were far from asleep as Mrs. Bennet had been informed by her husband. Both twins were standing upright, oblivious to the fact their mother was nearby. They were obviously up to something and enjoying one another's company and she was intrigued. She stood outside their door, her arms full of clean washing.
"And now it's Bubba's turn!" cried Spag, the older twin by twenty minutes who had never once called her sister by her correct name. Mrs. Bennet firmly believed Kezia would known as Bubba until the twins were in their eighties.
"Tinkle tinkle little star, ow I under what you are..." began Bol.
The audience was silent as the little star sang with delicious beauty, then erupted into applause once the song was finished.
"Well done, Bubba! Well done," responded the X factor judge from the right-hand cot. The contestant in the left-hand cot was delighted.
"Thank you Rosie and now it's your turn!"
And so Rosie began her solo. This time it was "Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer." And again the audience respected the artist and encouraged her accordingly. The unseen agent behind the door smiled. So this was what they were up to: performing their own cot concert. She hated to interupt their fun.Instead she put down the clean washing at their door, and tip-toed away, making a note to sign up these little stars for future entertainment purposes.
Shouts of joy and laughter which came from the vacinity of the little Miss Twin Bennet's room indicated that the occupants were far from asleep as Mrs. Bennet had been informed by her husband. Both twins were standing upright, oblivious to the fact their mother was nearby. They were obviously up to something and enjoying one another's company and she was intrigued. She stood outside their door, her arms full of clean washing.
"And now it's Bubba's turn!" cried Spag, the older twin by twenty minutes who had never once called her sister by her correct name. Mrs. Bennet firmly believed Kezia would known as Bubba until the twins were in their eighties.
"Tinkle tinkle little star, ow I under what you are..." began Bol.
The audience was silent as the little star sang with delicious beauty, then erupted into applause once the song was finished.
"Well done, Bubba! Well done," responded the X factor judge from the right-hand cot. The contestant in the left-hand cot was delighted.
"Thank you Rosie and now it's your turn!"
And so Rosie began her solo. This time it was "Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer." And again the audience respected the artist and encouraged her accordingly. The unseen agent behind the door smiled. So this was what they were up to: performing their own cot concert. She hated to interupt their fun.Instead she put down the clean washing at their door, and tip-toed away, making a note to sign up these little stars for future entertainment purposes.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Training twin bottoms
Monday, March 15 ‘10
There were two different kinds of bottoms in bite-size Modern Pemberley: the ones who were pro-potty and the ones who, if Mrs. Bennet allowed, would still be wearing nappies until they were 18. Four bottoms were trained. One bottom was not. And the untrained bot was quite clearly very happy to stay that way. She saw no need for it but was quite happy for her twin-bottomed-pal to enjoy her new-found independence.
To be honest Mrs. Bennet didn’t like potty training. Miss Megan Bennet had been somewhat later than her older siblings due to the fact that the massive double bump had prevented her mother from getting anywhere near the floor to a) reach the potty or bottom in question and b) clear up any spillages or deposits. The thought therefore of training two little derrieres at the same time did not fill Mrs. Bennet with joy.
But in the past few weeks something extraordinary happened with Miss Bennet Number Five. The smallest twin, known affectionately in written fashion as Bol, and Gorgeous in spoken form; decided to potty train herself. So efficient was this tiny dot, that not only did she take herself to the potty when she needed to go, but she wiped herself with a toilet roll put down by her side, emptied the contents into the toilet (without spilling any), climbed on to the side of her sister’s no-chance-of-anything-getting-in-here-potty, reached the flush, pressed the button, climbed down and then proceeded to wash her hands using the bath taps, pulled her pants and trousers up and did a little run and jump to end the routine. Mrs. Bennet was stunned by this spurt of independence and hoped that it would rub off onto Miss Bennet Number Four. But so far, nothing. Spag, as this twin was known on paper, Fantastic to her face, showed no sign of following.
“Well done Bubba!” she frequently yelled, accompanied by a clap. Bubba was the affectionate name Rosie gave her sister. Never once had she called her Kezia. Bubba was her name and probably would be for the rest of her life. Using the toilet or potty, dressing herself, walking everywhere and helping Mummy was a Kezia thing, not a Rosie thing. In Rosie’s world, one drew faces and people, used lots of bright coloured felt tips all day long, got pushed around in pushchairs, was dressed by Mummy only and didn’t go anywhere near a bathroom unless lifted into the bath.
These two children may share a birthday and a womb, but they were so refreshingly different that even Mrs. Bennet found it hard to believe they were twins. Miss Kezia was a mini Miss Bennet Number Two and Miss Rosie was a mini Miss Bennet Number One or Three. Miss Emily, daughter number two was Mrs. Bennet’s memory stick. She remembered every detail her mother was likely to forget. And Miss Kezia was fast becoming her back-up or hard-drive.
Only the other day Mrs. Bennet in sorting out the washing had made seven piles ready to take to the corresponding drawers, to discover one had disappeared. Without being told, the pile had been delivered to the correct landing spot by a two-year-old! Mrs. Bennet wasn’t sure how she managed to produce such a young and enthusiastic laundry helper when her older siblings just watched and let their mother get on with it.
“Please watch Kezia and take note everyone!” she remarked. But only Miss Bennet Number Two took notice. Mr. Bennet was now in Japan, so couldn’t. But he left his washing behind anyway.
Mrs. Bennet marvelled at the diversity within her household. Life was never dull. Sitting at her toddler table, drawing perfectly formed people, complete with bodies and head hair, her elder twin was now dressed in a fairy dress with a winter bobble hat on her head while her sister waddled pant-less towards the downstairs bathroom with potty in hand refusing any help. Mrs. Bennet’s nappy days were almost coming to an end. But somehow she knew there were a few more dirty bottoms in store for her yet.
There were two different kinds of bottoms in bite-size Modern Pemberley: the ones who were pro-potty and the ones who, if Mrs. Bennet allowed, would still be wearing nappies until they were 18. Four bottoms were trained. One bottom was not. And the untrained bot was quite clearly very happy to stay that way. She saw no need for it but was quite happy for her twin-bottomed-pal to enjoy her new-found independence.
To be honest Mrs. Bennet didn’t like potty training. Miss Megan Bennet had been somewhat later than her older siblings due to the fact that the massive double bump had prevented her mother from getting anywhere near the floor to a) reach the potty or bottom in question and b) clear up any spillages or deposits. The thought therefore of training two little derrieres at the same time did not fill Mrs. Bennet with joy.
But in the past few weeks something extraordinary happened with Miss Bennet Number Five. The smallest twin, known affectionately in written fashion as Bol, and Gorgeous in spoken form; decided to potty train herself. So efficient was this tiny dot, that not only did she take herself to the potty when she needed to go, but she wiped herself with a toilet roll put down by her side, emptied the contents into the toilet (without spilling any), climbed on to the side of her sister’s no-chance-of-anything-getting-in-here-potty, reached the flush, pressed the button, climbed down and then proceeded to wash her hands using the bath taps, pulled her pants and trousers up and did a little run and jump to end the routine. Mrs. Bennet was stunned by this spurt of independence and hoped that it would rub off onto Miss Bennet Number Four. But so far, nothing. Spag, as this twin was known on paper, Fantastic to her face, showed no sign of following.
“Well done Bubba!” she frequently yelled, accompanied by a clap. Bubba was the affectionate name Rosie gave her sister. Never once had she called her Kezia. Bubba was her name and probably would be for the rest of her life. Using the toilet or potty, dressing herself, walking everywhere and helping Mummy was a Kezia thing, not a Rosie thing. In Rosie’s world, one drew faces and people, used lots of bright coloured felt tips all day long, got pushed around in pushchairs, was dressed by Mummy only and didn’t go anywhere near a bathroom unless lifted into the bath.
These two children may share a birthday and a womb, but they were so refreshingly different that even Mrs. Bennet found it hard to believe they were twins. Miss Kezia was a mini Miss Bennet Number Two and Miss Rosie was a mini Miss Bennet Number One or Three. Miss Emily, daughter number two was Mrs. Bennet’s memory stick. She remembered every detail her mother was likely to forget. And Miss Kezia was fast becoming her back-up or hard-drive.
Only the other day Mrs. Bennet in sorting out the washing had made seven piles ready to take to the corresponding drawers, to discover one had disappeared. Without being told, the pile had been delivered to the correct landing spot by a two-year-old! Mrs. Bennet wasn’t sure how she managed to produce such a young and enthusiastic laundry helper when her older siblings just watched and let their mother get on with it.
“Please watch Kezia and take note everyone!” she remarked. But only Miss Bennet Number Two took notice. Mr. Bennet was now in Japan, so couldn’t. But he left his washing behind anyway.
Mrs. Bennet marvelled at the diversity within her household. Life was never dull. Sitting at her toddler table, drawing perfectly formed people, complete with bodies and head hair, her elder twin was now dressed in a fairy dress with a winter bobble hat on her head while her sister waddled pant-less towards the downstairs bathroom with potty in hand refusing any help. Mrs. Bennet’s nappy days were almost coming to an end. But somehow she knew there were a few more dirty bottoms in store for her yet.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
No Octopus for Mrs. Bennet
Friday, March 5 ‘10
Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.
Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.
Friday, 29 January 2010
A taste of freedom and wanting more
Friday, January 29 2010
There was something about freedom which was addictive. Mrs. Bennet had had a taste of unclipped wings and now that she was back in the restraints of her four walls and six other Bennets, she wanted to escape and soar through the sky. Not that she wanted to leave them or live without these precious people, it was just ever so often she just needed to retreat to that quiet place where she could go to the toilet in peace, drink a coffee that didn’t go cold and have a meal made for her instead of creatively trying to think how to feed six mouths without one of them inevitably moaning about the final offering.
For the first time in 20 years, Mrs. Bennet had spent the weekend in a plush hotel with her sister. Once they had driven aimlessly around Cardiff city centre trying to find their destination – without the help of Mr. Tom Tom or an up-to-date map – they were quite happy to flop in the hotel’s restaurant with a large glass of wine and relish what hours they had. There was something magical about being sisters. One shared a sense of time and history, stories of loved ones past and present, and adventures and experiences money couldn’t by. As the age gap wasn’t huge, neither sister in this case could remember a time without the other. Everyday life couldn’t be more extreme, yet this constantness, this grounding, this respect and unconditional acceptance was the underlying force which gelled them together – and a mutual interest in art and retail therapy!
In her Tuesday evening art class, Mrs. Bennet’s challenge was to paint an oil landscape with palette knife only. She worked from a photograph she’d taken of Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium. She accentuated the colours, pushing them to the limit and relished in the freedom of using the knife. She wanted it to reflect the freedom she had felt over the weekend. Really she was greedy for more so maybe this would serve as a reminder of what there was if only she could grab a few minutes to appreciate it. Everyone needed a break at times, but what was it about mothers and leaving their children even for a day or two? Why did guilt threaten and hover like a black cloud. Mr. Bennet was more than capable of handling his little ladies. Yes he did experience some inner conflicts and refusals to help in putting toys away, but able he was and kind to let his wife treat his sister-in-law. Mrs. Bennet had felt like a new woman away. She had even been persuaded to buy a dress: an item foreign to her body and wardrobe. Mr. Bennet certainly hadn’t seen his wife’s legs out in public since their wedding day.
It was unfortunate that she arrived home after a storm. Mr. Bennet had lost his cool with his daughters and after asking them several times to tidy up, without success, had at the last resort, scooped every item on the floor up in a black plastic bag and dumped it in the garden. This hadn’t gone down too well with the Bennet girls and somehow in the midst of the uproar Miss Megan Bennet had walked into a door and hit her eye on the door handle.
“So have you been good for Daddy?” Mrs. Bennet asked them after receiving a bundle of cuddles from them all.
“No, not really,” was the honest reply, “And Megan’s got a black eye.”
Six lunch boxes later, various sorting out and clearing away, finding swimming bags, responding to work emails and discovering she had some tight writing deadlines to meet – and that the four legged creatures in the cavity walls were still there - Mrs. Bennet stumbled into bed exhausted and feeling stressed. Her sister had on the other hand gone home to watch a DVD. Somehow, despite the demands of her busy life, Mrs. Bennet knew for the sake of being the best wife, mum, daughter, sister and friend she could be, she had to make time to escape. She had had a taste of freedom and it was a dangerous thing. She wanted more. But she also knew that she needed only to fly a short way away, because the sheer joy of seeing six precious faces beaming at her as she walked through the door, would always entice her to come home despite how noisy and demanding it was.
There was something about freedom which was addictive. Mrs. Bennet had had a taste of unclipped wings and now that she was back in the restraints of her four walls and six other Bennets, she wanted to escape and soar through the sky. Not that she wanted to leave them or live without these precious people, it was just ever so often she just needed to retreat to that quiet place where she could go to the toilet in peace, drink a coffee that didn’t go cold and have a meal made for her instead of creatively trying to think how to feed six mouths without one of them inevitably moaning about the final offering.
For the first time in 20 years, Mrs. Bennet had spent the weekend in a plush hotel with her sister. Once they had driven aimlessly around Cardiff city centre trying to find their destination – without the help of Mr. Tom Tom or an up-to-date map – they were quite happy to flop in the hotel’s restaurant with a large glass of wine and relish what hours they had. There was something magical about being sisters. One shared a sense of time and history, stories of loved ones past and present, and adventures and experiences money couldn’t by. As the age gap wasn’t huge, neither sister in this case could remember a time without the other. Everyday life couldn’t be more extreme, yet this constantness, this grounding, this respect and unconditional acceptance was the underlying force which gelled them together – and a mutual interest in art and retail therapy!
In her Tuesday evening art class, Mrs. Bennet’s challenge was to paint an oil landscape with palette knife only. She worked from a photograph she’d taken of Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium. She accentuated the colours, pushing them to the limit and relished in the freedom of using the knife. She wanted it to reflect the freedom she had felt over the weekend. Really she was greedy for more so maybe this would serve as a reminder of what there was if only she could grab a few minutes to appreciate it. Everyone needed a break at times, but what was it about mothers and leaving their children even for a day or two? Why did guilt threaten and hover like a black cloud. Mr. Bennet was more than capable of handling his little ladies. Yes he did experience some inner conflicts and refusals to help in putting toys away, but able he was and kind to let his wife treat his sister-in-law. Mrs. Bennet had felt like a new woman away. She had even been persuaded to buy a dress: an item foreign to her body and wardrobe. Mr. Bennet certainly hadn’t seen his wife’s legs out in public since their wedding day.
It was unfortunate that she arrived home after a storm. Mr. Bennet had lost his cool with his daughters and after asking them several times to tidy up, without success, had at the last resort, scooped every item on the floor up in a black plastic bag and dumped it in the garden. This hadn’t gone down too well with the Bennet girls and somehow in the midst of the uproar Miss Megan Bennet had walked into a door and hit her eye on the door handle.
“So have you been good for Daddy?” Mrs. Bennet asked them after receiving a bundle of cuddles from them all.
“No, not really,” was the honest reply, “And Megan’s got a black eye.”
Six lunch boxes later, various sorting out and clearing away, finding swimming bags, responding to work emails and discovering she had some tight writing deadlines to meet – and that the four legged creatures in the cavity walls were still there - Mrs. Bennet stumbled into bed exhausted and feeling stressed. Her sister had on the other hand gone home to watch a DVD. Somehow, despite the demands of her busy life, Mrs. Bennet knew for the sake of being the best wife, mum, daughter, sister and friend she could be, she had to make time to escape. She had had a taste of freedom and it was a dangerous thing. She wanted more. But she also knew that she needed only to fly a short way away, because the sheer joy of seeing six precious faces beaming at her as she walked through the door, would always entice her to come home despite how noisy and demanding it was.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
A-shaking in the bedroom
January 2010
“No offence, Mr. Bennet, but I can’t sleep here any more. I’m moving out. This bedroom’s getting a bit overcrowded,” Mrs. Bennet announced at the beginning of the year. Not the best start to a new decade to leave the marital bed – even if it did mean a decade of absolutely no more child bearing other-wise-I’m-suing-the-NHS - but her actions were entirely justified. There was too much night-time activity taking place in this particular room and it had nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t long before Mr.Bennet joined her. They hadn’t fallen out with each other. But they had fallen out with certain invisible visitors who had taken camp in bite-size Modern Pemberley’s cavity walls and had the disconcerting habit of scurrying around at the back of their heads at three o’clock in the morning. De-nitting five heads was nothing compared to this. Mrs. Bennet knew her informative friend Mr.Google was always excellent when it came to finding out specialised details, but she never imagined him having to help Mr. Bennet identify droppings found in the loft. Mr. Bennet looked shaken with Mr.Google’s diagnosis. It wasn’t mice. It was something bigger.
“We better camp out in the lounge,” he decided.
“What do we tell the children? That we wanted a sleep over?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“Just say we fancied a change. Anything, but don’t mention the R word. They’ll never sleep at night,” was his reply.
Mr. Bennet was right of course: ironically confirmed the next evening by the eldest Miss Bennet, who had just happened to be reading The Railway Children.
“I’ve just read the first chapter Mummy!” she declared.
“And…what do you think?”
“It’s great Mummy, until the children have to move to the country and Roberta hears all this noise and she’s told it’s the rats in the cottage walls. That must have been really awful. I didn’t like reading that,” she explained.
Mrs. Bennet choked, trying to stifle a laugh and not quite believing the timeliness of her daughter’s choice of book.
Thankfully the elder children were out of the way when the Rat/Mouse Man paid a visit.
“Expect a lot of activity in the next few days, because they’ll get very excited,” he said. “I think you’ve only got mice by the way,” he added reassuringly, before adding: “but there could be a rat among them.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet might not want any more babies in the coming years, but it seemed someone else was getting a little too passionate in their bedroom. And the family behind the walls was growing a little too fast for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s liking!
“No offence, Mr. Bennet, but I can’t sleep here any more. I’m moving out. This bedroom’s getting a bit overcrowded,” Mrs. Bennet announced at the beginning of the year. Not the best start to a new decade to leave the marital bed – even if it did mean a decade of absolutely no more child bearing other-wise-I’m-suing-the-NHS - but her actions were entirely justified. There was too much night-time activity taking place in this particular room and it had nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t long before Mr.Bennet joined her. They hadn’t fallen out with each other. But they had fallen out with certain invisible visitors who had taken camp in bite-size Modern Pemberley’s cavity walls and had the disconcerting habit of scurrying around at the back of their heads at three o’clock in the morning. De-nitting five heads was nothing compared to this. Mrs. Bennet knew her informative friend Mr.Google was always excellent when it came to finding out specialised details, but she never imagined him having to help Mr. Bennet identify droppings found in the loft. Mr. Bennet looked shaken with Mr.Google’s diagnosis. It wasn’t mice. It was something bigger.
“We better camp out in the lounge,” he decided.
“What do we tell the children? That we wanted a sleep over?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“Just say we fancied a change. Anything, but don’t mention the R word. They’ll never sleep at night,” was his reply.
Mr. Bennet was right of course: ironically confirmed the next evening by the eldest Miss Bennet, who had just happened to be reading The Railway Children.
“I’ve just read the first chapter Mummy!” she declared.
“And…what do you think?”
“It’s great Mummy, until the children have to move to the country and Roberta hears all this noise and she’s told it’s the rats in the cottage walls. That must have been really awful. I didn’t like reading that,” she explained.
Mrs. Bennet choked, trying to stifle a laugh and not quite believing the timeliness of her daughter’s choice of book.
Thankfully the elder children were out of the way when the Rat/Mouse Man paid a visit.
“Expect a lot of activity in the next few days, because they’ll get very excited,” he said. “I think you’ve only got mice by the way,” he added reassuringly, before adding: “but there could be a rat among them.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet might not want any more babies in the coming years, but it seemed someone else was getting a little too passionate in their bedroom. And the family behind the walls was growing a little too fast for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s liking!
Monday, 7 December 2009
Affair over with Mr. Latte
Monday, December 7 ‘09
Mrs. Bennet’s affair with Mr. Latte was officially over. Having moved in permanently – thanks to her 40th birthday money – his position in the corner of the breakfast bar was no longer an exciting place to be. Mr. Latte had been sulking over the past few weeks as Mrs. Bennet hadn’t fancied him. Having been struck by a virus, Mrs. Bennet’s desire for her familiar hot steamy friend had wavered in favour of Mr. Black or hot water (nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally). And in obvious protest, Mr. Latte went off in a froth, blew a fuse and left the house in darkness. Having turned the house upside down in vain to find his guarantee or receipt, Mrs. Bennet realised that moving her treasured coffee companion into bite-sized Modern Pemberley hadn’t resulted in happily ever after. He wasn’t as faithful or reliable as she had hoped.
But Mr. Latte was not the only one letting her down. Both Mrs. Bennet’s Scooby Doo van and Mr. Bennet’s run-a-round vehicle were showing signs of weariness. The driver’s door lock in the latter was broken. Unless it was open, there was no way of getting in unless the driver climbed in through the passenger seat or fell on the mercy of anyone travelling inside to open the door from the inside. As for the Scooby Doo van, as well as having a leaking radiator and a dodgy gear stick, the mechanics in the doors were also suffering from automobile arthritis. So much so in trying to get Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets in one afternoon, the only back door of the car – a sliding one at the side – refused to open at all. This meant all five Miss Bennets squeezing into the vehicle by the only route available; mountaineering over Mrs. Bennet’s seat into their respective places, with the two older Miss Bennets pole vaulting yet again into position in the very back. She then had to follow suit to ensure the younger ones were all strapped in correctly.
Life was full of challenges and disappointments. Sometimes you could laugh at them, other times you could not. Mrs. Bennet knew there was no spare cash to repair or replace anything. The house still didn’t have toilet rails, loo roll holders, blinds, curtains and lampshades. These things were on Mrs. Bennet’s wish list, along with her eternity ring, which had lost a stone months ago. She had lost a stone due to viruses and stress and needed that back too. She couldn’t buy that either.
That night as she peered in on her sleeping children, looking peaceful and untroubled, Mrs. Bennet knew they were her most precious gifts in the house. There was always enough love to go around. Faulty doors and a defunct Mr. Latte machine which looked good on the side yet was completely useless were just part of the hiccups of everyday living. Her affair with the hot froth was now over. She warmly accepted a big hug from Mr. Bennet, who promptly handed her a glass of chilled Rose instead.
Mrs. Bennet’s affair with Mr. Latte was officially over. Having moved in permanently – thanks to her 40th birthday money – his position in the corner of the breakfast bar was no longer an exciting place to be. Mr. Latte had been sulking over the past few weeks as Mrs. Bennet hadn’t fancied him. Having been struck by a virus, Mrs. Bennet’s desire for her familiar hot steamy friend had wavered in favour of Mr. Black or hot water (nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally). And in obvious protest, Mr. Latte went off in a froth, blew a fuse and left the house in darkness. Having turned the house upside down in vain to find his guarantee or receipt, Mrs. Bennet realised that moving her treasured coffee companion into bite-sized Modern Pemberley hadn’t resulted in happily ever after. He wasn’t as faithful or reliable as she had hoped.
But Mr. Latte was not the only one letting her down. Both Mrs. Bennet’s Scooby Doo van and Mr. Bennet’s run-a-round vehicle were showing signs of weariness. The driver’s door lock in the latter was broken. Unless it was open, there was no way of getting in unless the driver climbed in through the passenger seat or fell on the mercy of anyone travelling inside to open the door from the inside. As for the Scooby Doo van, as well as having a leaking radiator and a dodgy gear stick, the mechanics in the doors were also suffering from automobile arthritis. So much so in trying to get Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets in one afternoon, the only back door of the car – a sliding one at the side – refused to open at all. This meant all five Miss Bennets squeezing into the vehicle by the only route available; mountaineering over Mrs. Bennet’s seat into their respective places, with the two older Miss Bennets pole vaulting yet again into position in the very back. She then had to follow suit to ensure the younger ones were all strapped in correctly.
Life was full of challenges and disappointments. Sometimes you could laugh at them, other times you could not. Mrs. Bennet knew there was no spare cash to repair or replace anything. The house still didn’t have toilet rails, loo roll holders, blinds, curtains and lampshades. These things were on Mrs. Bennet’s wish list, along with her eternity ring, which had lost a stone months ago. She had lost a stone due to viruses and stress and needed that back too. She couldn’t buy that either.
That night as she peered in on her sleeping children, looking peaceful and untroubled, Mrs. Bennet knew they were her most precious gifts in the house. There was always enough love to go around. Faulty doors and a defunct Mr. Latte machine which looked good on the side yet was completely useless were just part of the hiccups of everyday living. Her affair with the hot froth was now over. She warmly accepted a big hug from Mr. Bennet, who promptly handed her a glass of chilled Rose instead.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Toasted Breast Sandwiches
Friday, November 19 ‘09
Mrs. Bennet couldn’t look at a sandwich toaster in the same way again. As much as she loved a cheese, onion and mayo toastie, she couldn’t quite bring herself to make one. It was too similar to the breast sandwich she’d just experienced at the local screening hospital. Six weeks ago she had had two small assets, which at least moved slightly. Now having suffering a weight-loss battering due to stomach bugs and the stress of her father’s emergency dash to hospital, what remnants she had now could quite easily fall into the category of “gnat bites at the end of an ironing board” – a phrase so eloquently used by one midwife in her explanation that any lady, big or small-chested, was capable of breast feeding her baby or babies. Incidentally a well-endowed mother’s acquisitions were referred to as “trombones.” The gnat bites belonging to Mrs. Bennet certainly weren’t happy today. They were squashed into the mammogram’s jaw, and then tightened with what felt like a screw.
“You wouldn’t believe I fed twins would you?” she nervously joked to the lady who was in control of this chest chewing machine. As unsightly and uncomfortable as she felt, Mrs. Bennet was still grateful to have her breasts toasted. Having appreciated the diligent efforts of the surgeons and breast cancer team to save the life of her own dear mum, Jannie – and her cousin - she could only applaud the services provided. With five little females of her own, it was the responsible thing to do, even if it did mean losing what dignity she had left. It would be 10 years before she officially got the official annual mammogram invite. It certainly gave her a greater understanding of the vulnerability, embarrassment and discomfort of being squashed and squeezed that so many cancer patients felt. In some units, the machine apparently bore an encouraging sticker: “squeezed in love.”
Feeling suitably bruised, Mrs. Bennet put her shocked assets away and took them home. The cheese toaster shone in the light as she walked into the kitchen. Sometimes she treated herself to a crunchy toastie. Today though, she couldn’t face it. Mr. Bennet might fancy a toasted naked breast and mayo, but it definitely wasn’t being offered on this lunch-time’s menu.
Mrs. Bennet couldn’t look at a sandwich toaster in the same way again. As much as she loved a cheese, onion and mayo toastie, she couldn’t quite bring herself to make one. It was too similar to the breast sandwich she’d just experienced at the local screening hospital. Six weeks ago she had had two small assets, which at least moved slightly. Now having suffering a weight-loss battering due to stomach bugs and the stress of her father’s emergency dash to hospital, what remnants she had now could quite easily fall into the category of “gnat bites at the end of an ironing board” – a phrase so eloquently used by one midwife in her explanation that any lady, big or small-chested, was capable of breast feeding her baby or babies. Incidentally a well-endowed mother’s acquisitions were referred to as “trombones.” The gnat bites belonging to Mrs. Bennet certainly weren’t happy today. They were squashed into the mammogram’s jaw, and then tightened with what felt like a screw.
“You wouldn’t believe I fed twins would you?” she nervously joked to the lady who was in control of this chest chewing machine. As unsightly and uncomfortable as she felt, Mrs. Bennet was still grateful to have her breasts toasted. Having appreciated the diligent efforts of the surgeons and breast cancer team to save the life of her own dear mum, Jannie – and her cousin - she could only applaud the services provided. With five little females of her own, it was the responsible thing to do, even if it did mean losing what dignity she had left. It would be 10 years before she officially got the official annual mammogram invite. It certainly gave her a greater understanding of the vulnerability, embarrassment and discomfort of being squashed and squeezed that so many cancer patients felt. In some units, the machine apparently bore an encouraging sticker: “squeezed in love.”
Feeling suitably bruised, Mrs. Bennet put her shocked assets away and took them home. The cheese toaster shone in the light as she walked into the kitchen. Sometimes she treated herself to a crunchy toastie. Today though, she couldn’t face it. Mr. Bennet might fancy a toasted naked breast and mayo, but it definitely wasn’t being offered on this lunch-time’s menu.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Spag and Bol – the tonic
Wednesday, November 11 ‘09
Now the dolls-on-the-roof had completed their ball-point pen removal therapy, they were back in full working order – being dragged along feet-first and lovingly manhandled by Spag and Bol. Under the lounge spotlights, the baby plastic now looked decidedly blotchy and Mrs. Bennet realised she had slightly overcooked the poor things. But the little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t seem to mind. They shoved Cheerios into the dolls’ mouths regardless and then wondered why they couldn’t get them back out.
Mrs. Bennet was so grateful to Spag and Bol right now. They were proving a real tonic. Their in-built rechargeable batteries never ran out enabling them to clip-clop in clumsy yet beautifully-comical style around the downstairs circle-route in bite-size Modern Pemberley wearing dressing-up high heeled shoes which didn’t match. They had no worries; only giggles and smiles. Mrs. Bennet wondered what age worry set in. How she would love a bottle of care-free childlike innocence at times. All was well in Spag and Bol’s world even if it wasn’t quite as it should be in Mrs. Bennet’s. With Christmas looming, Mrs. Bennet had no desire to buy any presents. Getting to Christmas dinner with every family member in one piece would be the best gift of all. Right now her dad was in hospital, having been rushed in passing out with acute stomach pains. Jannie had bravely fought breast cancer, but was still suffering the aftermaths and had seen enough medics to last a life-time. It certainly hadn’t been the best of years. And yet, despite seeing her dad, happy on morphine, eyes tinged yellow with his unshaven chin dappled with white specs as if he’d been caught dipping it into a packet of icing sugar, Mrs. Bennet felt grateful. Jannie had made it and so too would her dad – with the help of gall-bladder removal and a low-fat diet.
“Donuts don’t have any fat in do they?” he half-hoped, half-joked. It wasn’t good news for a sweet-tooth.
“They’re giving me a list of what I can have,” he informed his wife, still heart-broken that he hadn’t been given any ice-cream or milk for his breakfast cornflakes by the nurses.
“Good, because if they tell you, you might listen,” replied Jannie.
“Have you told them about your allergies?”
“Yes, but they only put down - beer. I think it was the only one they remembered but it made the consultant laugh,” the patient said smiling.
If there was one thing which held her family together it was humour. Watching her parent’s playful banter despite the situation they were in, gave her hope. A man wretched noisily into one of those funny cardboard bedpans in the corner bed; another snorted loudly in his sleep while one poor chap was stuck in the toilet waiting to be wheeled back to his bed. Visitors had sat around talking to an invisible man for 20 minutes wandering where he had gone. It was like watching a scene from Only When I Laugh, a classic early 1980’s comedy series set in the ward of an NHS hospital with an odd trio of male patients. Humour was everywhere if you chose to see it. And Mrs. Bennet had it on tap. She only had to spend a few minutes observing her youngest two daughters to get a free dose.
Now the dolls-on-the-roof had completed their ball-point pen removal therapy, they were back in full working order – being dragged along feet-first and lovingly manhandled by Spag and Bol. Under the lounge spotlights, the baby plastic now looked decidedly blotchy and Mrs. Bennet realised she had slightly overcooked the poor things. But the little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t seem to mind. They shoved Cheerios into the dolls’ mouths regardless and then wondered why they couldn’t get them back out.
Mrs. Bennet was so grateful to Spag and Bol right now. They were proving a real tonic. Their in-built rechargeable batteries never ran out enabling them to clip-clop in clumsy yet beautifully-comical style around the downstairs circle-route in bite-size Modern Pemberley wearing dressing-up high heeled shoes which didn’t match. They had no worries; only giggles and smiles. Mrs. Bennet wondered what age worry set in. How she would love a bottle of care-free childlike innocence at times. All was well in Spag and Bol’s world even if it wasn’t quite as it should be in Mrs. Bennet’s. With Christmas looming, Mrs. Bennet had no desire to buy any presents. Getting to Christmas dinner with every family member in one piece would be the best gift of all. Right now her dad was in hospital, having been rushed in passing out with acute stomach pains. Jannie had bravely fought breast cancer, but was still suffering the aftermaths and had seen enough medics to last a life-time. It certainly hadn’t been the best of years. And yet, despite seeing her dad, happy on morphine, eyes tinged yellow with his unshaven chin dappled with white specs as if he’d been caught dipping it into a packet of icing sugar, Mrs. Bennet felt grateful. Jannie had made it and so too would her dad – with the help of gall-bladder removal and a low-fat diet.
“Donuts don’t have any fat in do they?” he half-hoped, half-joked. It wasn’t good news for a sweet-tooth.
“They’re giving me a list of what I can have,” he informed his wife, still heart-broken that he hadn’t been given any ice-cream or milk for his breakfast cornflakes by the nurses.
“Good, because if they tell you, you might listen,” replied Jannie.
“Have you told them about your allergies?”
“Yes, but they only put down - beer. I think it was the only one they remembered but it made the consultant laugh,” the patient said smiling.
If there was one thing which held her family together it was humour. Watching her parent’s playful banter despite the situation they were in, gave her hope. A man wretched noisily into one of those funny cardboard bedpans in the corner bed; another snorted loudly in his sleep while one poor chap was stuck in the toilet waiting to be wheeled back to his bed. Visitors had sat around talking to an invisible man for 20 minutes wandering where he had gone. It was like watching a scene from Only When I Laugh, a classic early 1980’s comedy series set in the ward of an NHS hospital with an odd trio of male patients. Humour was everywhere if you chose to see it. And Mrs. Bennet had it on tap. She only had to spend a few minutes observing her youngest two daughters to get a free dose.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Mummies never get sick
Friday, October 30 ‘09
There was a book on the playroom shelf called “Mummies never get sick.” It lied because sometimes they did. They just couldn’t take a day off from work to be so. In her nine and a half years as a mother, she had only been bedridden once with flu, up until now. A stomach virus hit her big time, forcing her to crawl on to the sofa in between sudden dashes to the bathroom, which thanks to the completion of Modern Pemberley was now on ground floor level. It lasted 10 days, leaving her with vertigo and very dodgy on her feet. She somehow managed to run a party for eight-year-old Miss Bennet Number Two and her 25 chums thanks to the sterling efforts of Mr. Bennet and his amazing ability to gather the girls in an orderly fashion and get them spitting cola bottles, rolling conkers and eating hula hoops off string. He would make a great party entertainer. Fifteen years ago she fell in love with him while he was riding a unicycle in the midst of a circle of kids in his capacity as a youth leader in charge of a holiday club. It was days like this, when the stuffing had been knocked out of her, she really appreciated her own Mr. Darcy. Not that she had any energy to exert any passion, but it did remind her why she had married him. As the bug co-incided with the entire length of half-term holiday, it meant the little Miss Bennets were home and therefore Modern Pemberley was not quiet. Not that ever was, apart from the two-hour silence Mrs. Bennet enjoyed when Spag and Bol were asleep. Her elder three children had given up their afternoon nap soon after hitting two. At almost two-and-a-half Spag and Bol had no idea their mother wasn’t letting them give up theirs. Happy to lie down in parallel cots, the little Miss Twin Bennets were chatty bedfellows and enjoyed their lunchtime natter before drifting off.
Somehow in between flopping, Mrs. Bennet managed to sit and do beadwork, collage, cakes, play dough, jewellery, painting and maths practise with chocolate buttons. The children didn’t complain. As long as they got out of the house at least once a day, they were happy. And again somehow Mrs. Bennet did, so long as she was back on the sofa within the hour. It had become her new friend. Mr. Latte – who had moved in ever since Mrs. Bennet had bought a life-line sophisticated coffee machine with her 40th birthday money – had to sit quietly forgotten in the corner. She had no desire for him, or anything other than a mug of hot water, nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally in the Modern Mrs. Bennet dictionary.
But she did feel well-off. Ironically it was an enriching experience to be ill. Mrs. Bennet had realised what she had and it was good. She may not always have enough money to pay for their clubs and shoes, but where coffers lacked, the blessings around her more than compensated. Watching Spag and Bol chasing each other from lounge to kitchen to playroom to lounge dressed in fairy dresses and winter hats which were far too big from them, giggling profusely as they did, cheered her no end. Sometimes Mummies did get sick. But they were never lonely.
There was a book on the playroom shelf called “Mummies never get sick.” It lied because sometimes they did. They just couldn’t take a day off from work to be so. In her nine and a half years as a mother, she had only been bedridden once with flu, up until now. A stomach virus hit her big time, forcing her to crawl on to the sofa in between sudden dashes to the bathroom, which thanks to the completion of Modern Pemberley was now on ground floor level. It lasted 10 days, leaving her with vertigo and very dodgy on her feet. She somehow managed to run a party for eight-year-old Miss Bennet Number Two and her 25 chums thanks to the sterling efforts of Mr. Bennet and his amazing ability to gather the girls in an orderly fashion and get them spitting cola bottles, rolling conkers and eating hula hoops off string. He would make a great party entertainer. Fifteen years ago she fell in love with him while he was riding a unicycle in the midst of a circle of kids in his capacity as a youth leader in charge of a holiday club. It was days like this, when the stuffing had been knocked out of her, she really appreciated her own Mr. Darcy. Not that she had any energy to exert any passion, but it did remind her why she had married him. As the bug co-incided with the entire length of half-term holiday, it meant the little Miss Bennets were home and therefore Modern Pemberley was not quiet. Not that ever was, apart from the two-hour silence Mrs. Bennet enjoyed when Spag and Bol were asleep. Her elder three children had given up their afternoon nap soon after hitting two. At almost two-and-a-half Spag and Bol had no idea their mother wasn’t letting them give up theirs. Happy to lie down in parallel cots, the little Miss Twin Bennets were chatty bedfellows and enjoyed their lunchtime natter before drifting off.
Somehow in between flopping, Mrs. Bennet managed to sit and do beadwork, collage, cakes, play dough, jewellery, painting and maths practise with chocolate buttons. The children didn’t complain. As long as they got out of the house at least once a day, they were happy. And again somehow Mrs. Bennet did, so long as she was back on the sofa within the hour. It had become her new friend. Mr. Latte – who had moved in ever since Mrs. Bennet had bought a life-line sophisticated coffee machine with her 40th birthday money – had to sit quietly forgotten in the corner. She had no desire for him, or anything other than a mug of hot water, nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally in the Modern Mrs. Bennet dictionary.
But she did feel well-off. Ironically it was an enriching experience to be ill. Mrs. Bennet had realised what she had and it was good. She may not always have enough money to pay for their clubs and shoes, but where coffers lacked, the blessings around her more than compensated. Watching Spag and Bol chasing each other from lounge to kitchen to playroom to lounge dressed in fairy dresses and winter hats which were far too big from them, giggling profusely as they did, cheered her no end. Sometimes Mummies did get sick. But they were never lonely.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Up on a roof
Saturday, October 10 '09
"It's sunny, so please put dolls out," read the text. Mrs. Bennet was currently marching the three oldest Miss Bennets down the hill towards the cinema, leaving Mr. Bennet with the mischievous Spag and Bol and a half-constructed IKEA wardrobe to build. She had temporarily lifted the DIY curfew as Jannie, Mrs. Bennet's lovely mum had arranged for the King of Bodge, Mr. Jannie to be at hand to help. Whether it was safe to leave her husband and her Father banging away with two little girls free to roam at will, was a risk Mrs. Bennet decided to take. At least with the sun in full beam, there was a chance that the acne-creamed baby dolls could get their much-needed face lifts. Mr. Bennet was sceptical. He didn't believe such drastic treatment would work. Mrs. Bennet was more optimistic. She returned at lunch-time to find the two plastic victims sunbathing on the shed roof. Thankfully the older Miss Bennets didn't notice until later that afternoon. By then the sun had done wonders to the doll's grafitti skin and she was able to explain why they were where they were and that their parents hadn't gone completely mad.
Mrs. Bennet was impressed. One of the dolls, although now having slightly darker skin pigment in places, was essentially Biro-free. Her companion still wore some of her wounds and needed to revisit the plastic surgeon in the morning and be turned over to catch the sunlight, if there was any. But at least Spag and Bol had been given a reprieve. Their older siblings weren't cross with them or their mother for letting them loose in the first place. Acne cream mixed with sunlight had done the trick, certainly for one doll, who was returned to her owner. The other returned to the hospital shed for a rest, ready for a further installment. Mrs. Bennet did now worry for her own daughters should they ever need acne cream. She certainly wouldn't be putting them on a shed roof for a sun-bathing session. If the cream reacted with the sun's rays in this way and did Biro-removing wonders for plastic skin, what would it do to real skin? Having said that, Mrs. Bennet thought it could be a good way of removing age spots. She quite fancied a five hour kip in the sun - although perferably not high up on a shed roof!
"It's sunny, so please put dolls out," read the text. Mrs. Bennet was currently marching the three oldest Miss Bennets down the hill towards the cinema, leaving Mr. Bennet with the mischievous Spag and Bol and a half-constructed IKEA wardrobe to build. She had temporarily lifted the DIY curfew as Jannie, Mrs. Bennet's lovely mum had arranged for the King of Bodge, Mr. Jannie to be at hand to help. Whether it was safe to leave her husband and her Father banging away with two little girls free to roam at will, was a risk Mrs. Bennet decided to take. At least with the sun in full beam, there was a chance that the acne-creamed baby dolls could get their much-needed face lifts. Mr. Bennet was sceptical. He didn't believe such drastic treatment would work. Mrs. Bennet was more optimistic. She returned at lunch-time to find the two plastic victims sunbathing on the shed roof. Thankfully the older Miss Bennets didn't notice until later that afternoon. By then the sun had done wonders to the doll's grafitti skin and she was able to explain why they were where they were and that their parents hadn't gone completely mad.
Mrs. Bennet was impressed. One of the dolls, although now having slightly darker skin pigment in places, was essentially Biro-free. Her companion still wore some of her wounds and needed to revisit the plastic surgeon in the morning and be turned over to catch the sunlight, if there was any. But at least Spag and Bol had been given a reprieve. Their older siblings weren't cross with them or their mother for letting them loose in the first place. Acne cream mixed with sunlight had done the trick, certainly for one doll, who was returned to her owner. The other returned to the hospital shed for a rest, ready for a further installment. Mrs. Bennet did now worry for her own daughters should they ever need acne cream. She certainly wouldn't be putting them on a shed roof for a sun-bathing session. If the cream reacted with the sun's rays in this way and did Biro-removing wonders for plastic skin, what would it do to real skin? Having said that, Mrs. Bennet thought it could be a good way of removing age spots. She quite fancied a five hour kip in the sun - although perferably not high up on a shed roof!
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